


𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

by stopthat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Emotional Hurt, Experimental Style, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hope, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John is a Mess, M/M, Obsession, POV Alternating, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Romantic Friendship, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, WIP, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthat/pseuds/stopthat
Summary: In the months following Sherlock’s fall, it seems that John has begun to lose himself completely.◒Perhaps it’s wishful thinking.  Delusion.  An unwillingness to let go of the person he was when he was with Sherlock Holmes.Either way, it’s the only thing he’s got left to live for, and he isn’t ready to let go of it just yet.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 85
Kudos: 68





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

> Named for [The Only Thing](https://youtu.be/adKEqin5SoI) by Sufjan Stevens. Beautiful and heartbreaking. 
> 
> Real angsty, real candid talk of suicidal thoughts as well as Sherlock's supposed suicide and its effect on John, so beware if that's triggering for you. It's all based on my own shit and while probably a bit blunt at times, I'll try to be thoughtful about it.
> 
> Experimenting with writing in alternating third-person POVs, and will post each chapter as I go.
> 
> Definitely do intend to write them an eventual happy ending, but this story will be a whole lot of angst. Thanks for reading! As always, feedback is treasured.

  
🅗🅐🅡🅡🅨

> _you’ll want to come fetch your kin_
> 
> _he’s a right mess tonight_

Oh, _Christ._ Harry glances at the time. 2:33. Mentally shaking herself and begging her bloody brain to wake up, she hurriedly pockets the mobile, hoisting herself off the couch she’s been dozing on and shrugging into her jacket. She bolts out of the flat, vaguely registering the crack of the slamming door behind her as she tries not to think too hard about what, exactly, this means. An unfamiliar swell of panic lodges itself in her throat, forcing her to swallow thickly. If he’s at that godforsaken place, things are more grim than she’d been letting herself believe.

•

She finds him slumped over the bar, clutching onto an empty pint—an untouched glass of water sweats silently in front of him as he stares unseeingly at the stretch of worn wood it sits on. God, he looks _small._ Small and lost and nothing like the firecracker of a man she’d grown up with and relied on all her life. She glances around this achingly familiar space, eyes roaming over the clusters of mismatched sofas, the lonely leather armchairs that frame the fireplace, the strange taxidermy and even stranger old paintings adorning the walls. Her gaze drifts to the shelves of knickknacks behind the bar, to the hundreds of fraying postcards stabbed in stacks onto the heads of nails, the countless stray keys hanging in bunches on hooks—all left behind by decades of patrons who’d found themselves in this corner of the world and wanted to leave their mark. All her father’s treasures, still proudly displayed after all this time. The pub is empty but for the tragic figure sitting vigil at the bar.

“Harry,” Startled, Harry tears her eyes from her brother to meet those of Aoife, the fit-as-fuck angel of a barkeep who’d summonded her here with those two foreboding texts. They’d shared a few barely-remembered nights together a lifetime ago, back when Harry still spent her days in places like this. Aoife tilts her head slightly toward the chairs by the fire, loose dark curls shifting against slim shoulders, and Harry follows, sinking into the soft leather and leaning forward to listen, elbows on her denim-clad thighs. “Look—it’s not often that I call on a man’s sister to carry him home. He can handle himself—usually does just fine,” Her bright green eyes are alert, determined, if a bit sad. He must come here often, then. Harry’s heart sinks a bit at the thought, cursing herself for not knowing, for not checking in more often. “But I don’t think he should be alone tonight,” She chews on her lip, clearly questioning her own intrusive actions. “He hasn’t said anything outright—but—I have a sense for these things, Harry. I’ve been there myself, you know? He shouldn’t be alone,” Oh.

“All right,” Harry nods distractedly, because she’s unable to conjure any sort of eloquent response for this. She isn’t equipped to handle this sort of thing at all, has never had to be the one who does the looking-after. She watches her brother on the other side of the room. He hasn’t moved—has shown no sign of noticing her presence at all. “Thank you—I—all right,” She rises, standing frozen for a moment as her mind tries to catch up with the current situation, eventually deciding there’s nothing for it and moving across the room to stand at his side. “John,” She says quietly, placing a tentative hand on his arm. He glances up at her as if in slow-motion, eyes glassy and unsettlingly detached.

“Fuck are you doing here?” He mutters, uninterested, immediately returning his gaze to the bartop.

“Taking you home. Come on,” She steels herself for an argument, fully expecting some sort of explosive denial. But he only sighs, nodding once at his empty glass, and rising from his barstool. Christ, he looks like absolute shit—hasn’t shaved in ages, a short, greying beard covering his deeply creased features. It doesn’t suit him. Makes him look like he’s given up entirely. Perhaps he has. The deep, dark circles beneath his eyes are not new, though—they’ve been there since the moment it happened, since the very second that his entire world began to crumble.

She’d thought they were just flatmates. Yeah, she’d read the blog—knew full well that he’d managed to become infatuated with the infuriating bastard. It was no secret that the man was a source of excitement for her battered and bored brother. He’d shown up in his life at a crucial juncture and pulled him out of a gaping pit of despair with the sheer force of his insufferable personality. But John had always shouted his heterosexuality from the rooftops. He’d made it crystal fucking clear that he was a solid zero on the bloody Kinsey scale and that despite Harry’s suspicions and incessant teasing in their youth, there was nothing more to be said on the matter. Eventually, she’d chosen to believe him—and therefore thought that the rumours of there being more between the two of them were just that.

But then the absolute prick went and died— _offed himself_ right in front of his greatest admirer—and Harry had finally had to face the fact that she doesn’t know her brother at all.

He’d been lost— _thoroughly_ —and she had failed entirely at her attempts to get through to him. Of course it would be hard for him. Of course it would. It’s never _easy_ losing a friend—especially to suicide—and _especially_ with John’s tendency toward the same dark thoughts that sparked whatever demon pushed Holmes over the edge. After the war—after the months of hospitals and that depressing little bedsit he’d insisted on rather than staying at her flat—she was certain she’d lose him. She’s still certain she would’ve if that mad bastard hadn’t shown up and distracted him so completely. Something about him gave John a reason to live again. To _want_ to live again. But god, now this. Now, it seems, it’s only a matter of time.

John wrenches his arm from Harry’s attempted grasp.

“Not actually pissed,” He mumbles, glaring at her and heading for the door. He really doesn’t seem to be, though she notes a slight limp that hasn’t been there in nearly two years. She meets Aoife’s eye and nods her thanks, then follows him outside, shivering in the bitter February air.

“Not why I’m here,” She says belatedly, wishing he’d look at her. He’s stopped to lean against a light post, eyes fixed resolutely on the pavement. After a moment, he nods. “Come over for a cup of tea?” She tries lightly, knowing that he’s only come here to avoid Baker Street and its ghosts. Or _ghost,_ really. Just the one. This bloody pub holds its own unpleasant memories. Their parents have been dead for nearly a decade, but the new owners haven’t changed a goddamn thing about the place. _Iconic,_ is the word they’d used. _Hoarders,_ is the truth of it. Their father never threw away a single thing in his entire pathetic, drunken life. Choosing to be here rather than home says quite a lot about John’s state of mind.

He says nothing, but stands up straight, follows her to her sorry excuse for a car and gets in. The drive is blessedly short—ten minutes of uncomfortable quiet, weaving through the nearly empty streets—and once they reach Harry’s flat he walks straight to the sofa and sinks right in. As she sets the kettle to boil, rummaging through cupboards for some non-caffeinated tea, Harry resolves to make him speak. She’s been a shit sister these past months—caught up in her own dramas and spending her days at the café trying to make enough bloody money to afford this pitiful flat. She texts him every now and then, but she’s been stubbornly telling herself that he’s _fine._ He’s a grown man and it’s been _months._ Surely he’s beginning to move on. She’d been wrong.

“Talk to me,” She demands, handing him a steaming mug and dropping down into the armchair beside the couch. The look he gives her is brief, but glutted with the sort of concentrated disdain that no doubt serves as a proper warning for anyone who’s dared to get in his way. She glares right back, truly unmoved by her brother’s attempts at intimidation. “Go on then.”

“Harry,” He warns, setting his untouched mug down hard on the coffee table.

“Johnny,” She shoots back. He looks away, staring at the opposite wall. “It’s a bad one. I can see that. Tell me.”

“They’re all _bad ones,”_ He hisses, meeting her eye for a fleeting moment, then staring determinedly back at the wall, brown furrowed. Upset with himself for responding at all, then.

“You miss him. That’s fine—it’s—”

“Don’t,” Harry lets her mouth snap shut. His tone is dangerous, startlingly so. She hasn’t actually ever tried to speak to him about Holmes. When the two of them were living their little crime-fighting life together, she and John hardly saw one another at all. After his death, they’d spent a few awkward, unproductive afternoons in each others’ presence, but at the time John hadn't been able to even hear the man’s name spoken aloud without curling up into his impenetrable shell, and Harry hadn’t had the heart to push him. But _now,_ tonight, late-night text messages from concerned barkeeps have been received, John has come here without argument—which is a whole new level of worrisome—and Harry is determined to do _something._

“John,” She tries gently, watching as he visibly deflates, eyes darting back to meet hers before skittering across the room once more. “Were the two of you—were you—”

_“No,_ Harry. Jesus.” 

“But this is about him. This is—”

“It’s always about him,” John interrupts, shifting on the couch to lean forward, hands on his knees. _“Everything_ is _always_ about him. It was when he was alive, and it is now that he’s fucking dead,” Harry stares back at him, can hear the grief behind his words, can see it in his glassy, darkened eyes. “Never any bloody consideration for anyone else. He’s fucked off without me for the thousandth time, and it’s taking everything I’ve got not to follow.”

This final statement is met with a vast, vibrating chasm of silence. What can she possibly say to that? He’s said it, now. He wants to follow the bastard into oblivion. No platitudes or halfhearted begging from his nearly-estranged sister will break through a proclamation like that. She’d accepted long ago that this sort of loss may one day be a part of her life again. Now it feels as though she’s lost him already.

“Your therapist. Are you—”

“I’m still going. Tuesdays at ten.”

“But it isn’t helping,” Not a question. It hadn't helped their mother, either. She was much too far gone. Unreachable, in the end. “Have you told her this? Maybe she could—” He isn’t listening. Harry trails off, watching him sit right in front of her, knowing full well that he’s miles away. “John—”

“I was going to tell him,” He says quietly, seemingly to himself. “I probably wasn’t, actually. But I’d thought about it. Just seemed, you know—futile,” His eyes are on his hands, the fingers of his left flexing into a fist and then straightening out again. Over and over. A nervous tick, perhaps. Another thing about him that Harry doesn’t recognize. “He was a prick. I do know that. Absolutely bloody thoughtless. Rude even at his best,” He closes his eyes for a long moment, then resumes staring blankly at his hands. “That was an act, though. Mostly. He wasn’t like that when it was just me. Just us. There were moments when he’d look at me, and I’d think _oh, he feels it too._ But I never found the nerve. Never said a single fucking thing about it. He offed himself thinking I’d lost faith in him entirely,” Harry inhales deeply, her heart squeezing uncomfortably at the pain in his voice. She knows what it is to lose someone because you didn’t speak up, but this is far beyond her realm of experience. “I called him a machine,” Oh, John.

They sit in silence for several interminable minutes. Eventually, Harry nudges his tea toward him and he accepts it blindly, his mind still far away.

“I think—” Harry begins, clearing her throat when her words come out as an unintelligible rasp. “I think he probably knew, John,” He looks up at her then, expression somewhat puzzled. “Most observant man in London and all that. You’re not exactly Fort Knox,” She attempts a grin, hoping that this won’t make it all irreversibly worse. His features remain joyless, but he rolls his eyes slightly in what Harry assumes is a fond way.

“Piss off,” Is all he says.

“And from what I’ve heard, he didn’t—didn’t let people in easily. Didn’t let _anyone_ in. Only you,” She swallows, fighting the swift prickle of tears as she watches them fall from the corners of her brother’s tightly closed eyes. “That has to count for something.”

He doesn’t respond, so Harry sips her tea, letting her mind wander to lost loves and missed opportunities, until John curls up on the sofa with his back to her, looking more fragile than she’d have thought him capable of. She can’t let him walk back out into the world alone, but neither can she keep an eye on him every moment of every day for the rest of their bloody lives. There’s only one option left, as far as she can tell. One final lifeline.

When she’s certain he’s asleep, Harry returns to the kitchen, yanking open drawers and tossing stacks of papers and random trinkets onto the worktop until she finds what she’s looking for. The business card is unassuming—thick white paper with simple, navy blue text and a tidy, handwritten _Do not hesitate._ on the back in black ink. It had appeared under her door the day after Holmes' death. Pulling her mobile from her pocket, she wavers for only a moment before dialing. The posh voice that picks up sounds wide awake, despite the ungodly hour.

“Hello, Ms. Watson. Is he all right?”


	2. Mycroft

🅜🅨🅒🅡🅞🅕🅣

“No, he bloody well isn’t all right,” He’d expected her to call much sooner. It’s been nearly three months, and Sherlock may have been enough of a fool to underestimate Dr. Watson’s affection for him, but Mycroft is not quite so blind. And despite Sherlock’s constant and truly admirable attempts at remaining aloof, he could not hide the fact that he returns the man’s feelings in full. Now he’s gone and died for him— _officially._ They’ve installed a headstone and everything. An offensive amount of paperwork and a bloody poorly-attended funeral. Not to mention that impeccably orchestrated but absolutely foolhardy jump. Overall, a ridiculously elaborate scheme to save the mundane lives of three ordinary people. If Mycroft had a bit more backbone when it comes to his brother, he’d have shut it down immediately. But he’s seen what this stalwart soldier has brought to Sherlock’s chaotic and rather solitary life. Structure, security, affection. Mycroft may disapprove of such sentimental concepts, but he could not watch his brother fall back into the trappings of drugs and a tepid, lonely existence. The two of them are different in that regard—Sherlock needs _people._ Needs the audience for his incomparable genius, yes—but more than that, he craves companionship. For most of his life, he’d convinced himself that he could never have it—had filled that metaphorical hole with a seven percent solution and far too many bloody cigarettes. But then there was Dr. Watson. And Mycroft prefers even this feigned death to the half-life he’d been living before John had shown up.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes,” She’s nearly whispering—is right there with him, then. Has run out of options. “What _can_ you do?”

There are several arrangements in place, of course. Sherlock had told him in no uncertain terms that if anything happened to Dr. Watson while he was away, he’d burn the city to the ground. Mycroft does not doubt for a moment that he meant the threat in its purest form. Sherlock could be incredibly destructive if he chose to be. Brilliant and relentless. Fortunately for London, he’s always turned his destructive tendencies inward and the only thing he’s managed to burn to the ground is his own reputation. Until now. Until James Moriarty was fool enough to tempt him.

Mycroft is well aware that Sherlock had outside forces in mind when it came to protecting John, but it was clear from the start that the doctor would be his own worst enemy. Trusting that the flat itself would not be the place he’d meet his untimely end if it came to that—lest their beloved landlady be the one to discover it—the interior of 221B has remained unmonitored. He hardly spends any time there, anyway. And so, his every move outside of the home they’d shared has been carefully recorded, members of Mycroft’s team have been planted, coworkers at the clinic and barkeeps alike have been recruited. It’s truly shocking how uncomplicated it is to convince the general public to spy for financial gain. Dr. Watson himself remains the one and only man to ever turn him down. Mycroft still thinks of that first meeting from time to time—of how quickly John had chosen to align himself with Sherlock—unhesitatingly _shooting_ a man to spare his life almost immediately after. He’d been stunned, really, that someone had taken to his abrasive brother so easily—tentatively grateful and more than a bit suspicious. But now, here they are. It was Sherlock’s turn, apparently, to do the saving. And the responsibility to preserve the life of his brother’s rescuee falls, predictably, on Mycroft.

“There are multiple potential courses of action,” He begins, mind whirring as he breezes through each plan that’s waiting to be set in motion in the event that Dr. Watson deems his life unworthy of living. They could commit him, of course. But that, Mycroft believes, should be their last resort. “I’d like to speak with him. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“What—you’re coming _here?”_ Exasperated. Embarrassed by the state of her flat. Hesitant to throw her brother into the clutches of a man she’s never met. Wary of the entire situation. Mycroft holds back a sigh. People are _constantly_ seeking reassurance. It’s incredibly tedious.

“My brother held yours in high regard. That isn’t something that I take lightly. If he’s struggling, I’ll do whatever I can,” She sighs, resigned. Clearly, she hadn’t expected to have to take on this burden—never thought she’d be the one to pick up the pieces of her brother’s shattered life when she’s barely holding herself together as it is.

“All right,” Another sigh. “He’s asleep. I’ll leave the door open—I’m off to bed.”

•

Harriet Watson’s flat is appallingly small, but fairly tidy—a space that’s been hard-won and barely held on to. Perhaps she’d agree to allow John to remain within its walls, to keep a weather eye on him, if Mycroft covered a year’s rent. He suspects, though, that she’d be offended by such an offer—just as stubborn and irrationally independent as her brother has proven to be. Perhaps not, then. 

He takes a perfunctory glance around the cramped living space, learning what he can. Just over a year sober, but it hasn’t come easily. Regular meetings at the Unitarian church down the street. A decent managerial job at a nearby café. Caffeine habit. Cigarette habit as well, though she goes out of her way to keep the scent out of the flat. Single— _very_ single. A structured, contained life. An honest attempt at self-rehabilitation and a desire to establish healthier routines. And then there’s John—an unmoving lump on the sofa, covered in a faded, handmade quilt. Family heirloom made by an adored grandparent, no doubt. Mycroft takes a seat in the chair at his side, feeling the subtlest swell of something resembling warmth. Appreciation, at the very least. His brother loves this man dearly—and even to someone like Mycroft, that is no small thing.

“Dr. Watson,” he says firmly, in his most commanding tone. John shifts immediately, first looking over his shoulder and then sitting up abruptly and swinging his feet around to the floor. He looks Mycroft up and down and then exhales, sinking back into the relatively new, practical green sofa where he sits.

“Whatever this is, I’m not up for it.”

“This is a conversation, I hope. Nothing more,” The doctor’s expression is entirely distrusting, his eyes searching for an ulterior motive, but apparently finding none. He shrugs, slowly releasing the breath in his lungs. “You’ve missed your last two shifts at the clinic,” Mycroft had been notified yesterday that John had missed a second shift—slightly worrisome, but he’s loathed working there for ages—since _before_ —so not entirely surprising.

“And?”

“Such a thing might cause one to worry, if one were the type to do so.”

“What is this, a bloody riddle, Mycroft? Why are you here?” He sits up straight now, hands clasped between his knees, clear blue eyes alert, expectant. “Why are you at my _sister’s flat?_ I haven’t heard from you since the miserable, _horrible_ funeral,” He swallows, huffing quietly at the memory and looking away for a moment. “What could you possibly want from me now?”

The funeral _was_ horrible. Far too intimate and uncomfortable for all involved. He’d failed to convince their parents to even bother to attend the ridiculous charade, and two of the five attendees—Ms. Hooper and himself—were well aware that it was all a sham for the benefit of the other three. And on top of all that, there were swarms of persistent press stalking the pavement outside the chapel, shouting questions in their faces about what a fraud Sherlock Holmes had been, and following Dr. Watson all the way back to Baker Street. Sherlock’s absence was certainly felt by all.

“I don’t want anything from you,” The time has come for honesty—a bit, at least. A partial truth that may act as motivation to hold onto his life—at least for a while. At least until Sherlock breaks free from the web he’s managed to get himself so thoroughly tangled up in and returns to London as a celebrated hero. Something like that. “I hope to give you some perspective, Dr. Watson—John. I’d like to tell you the real reason he jumped.”

The flurry of emotion that plays over his face would be comical if it weren’t so thoroughly heartbreaking. Mycroft is not without compassion—sentiment may not be his area of expertise, but he can appreciate the magnitude of this loss for a man like John Watson, who wears his heart on his proverbial sleeve. He watches John swallow several times in a clear attempt to rein in his emotions and get control of his voice before speaking.

“The real reason,” He repeats flatly, voice and features uninterested—but his eyes give him away.

“Yes, John. It’s quite a complicated mess, but my brother did not _want_ to die.”

“Tell me,” He barks, suddenly furious. Perhaps this was a mistake. Sherlock certainly didn’t want John—or the others, for that matter—to know that he’d done this to save them. But he hadn’t anticipated the Shakespearean effect his dramatics would have. He clearly could not envision a world where John would not want to go on without him in it, and now his Romeo is paying the price for his emotional blindspot. Mycroft allows himself to sigh.

“An elaborate plan to destroy Sherlock’s reputation. A game of wits—one that he clearly did not win. In the end there were three snipers, trained on Martha Hudson, Gregory Lestrade, and you, Dr. Watson. A grand finale to James Moriarty’s great game. An ultimatum. Sherlock jumped to spare your lives. An easy decision for him, I assure you,” John gapes, eyes wide, apparently absolutely horrified by this information. Oh, hell. He leaps up off the sofa, begins pacing the small room, both hands balled into tight fists at his sides. After several minutes of this, he stops, turns to face Mycroft head on.

“Why would he _DO THAT?”_ He roars, chest heaving as he seems to struggle to breathe. Mycroft is more than a bit taken aback by this sudden outburst. He takes a moment to school his features, to bury the surprise that is no doubt currently on display. Is this not a positive thing? Should John not be glad to know that Sherlock placed such value on his life?

“He cared for you, of course,” Mycroft is pleased to hear that his voice is cooperating. John stares at him, wild eyed, his entire body trembling with each laboured breath. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

The look John gives him is one of unguarded rage. He backs up, nearly tripping over the coffee table in the process—then snatches his jacket from the sofa and bolts straight out the door.


	3. Greg

🅖🅡🅔🅖

Ah, piss. He’s forgotten to follow up with that witness in the bloody Bigsby case. The oldendayser. What was his name—Wilson? Williams? Greg shuffles papers around on his desk in search of the right case file. Christ, he’s behind. Absolutely overwhelmed, and he barely slept last night. He glances at his watch. Only half six—perhaps he should have another coffee. This job has gotten a lot more difficult since Sherlock bloody Holmes decided to leap off of a goddamn rooftop—he can’t remember a time when he had to work this hard just to barely stay afloat. 

Workload aside, Greg still hasn’t managed to be anything but angry with the man for what he’s done. Angry and bloody guilty. His mind can’t help but return—over and over again, a hundred times a day—to how badly he himself had buggered it all up. Sherlock was not a fraud. He knew it. He knows it. Why did he go along with it? Something about the entire thing doesn’t sit well with him—he feels as though he’s missing some crucial element that would explain the entire catastrophe.

He’s thinking exactly that when John Watson, of all people, bursts into his office, slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shake and Greg recoils, half expecting a blow.

“Did you know?” He demands, shoving his fisted hands into his jacket pockets. He’s bloody shaking. Eyes wild and hair windswept. Looks like shite. Not a man who can pull off such an untidy beard. Did he walk here? Bit of a trek from Baker Street. Greg hasn’t seen him in over a month. They’d tried a few times to go out for a pint, but John doesn’t have much to say these days. At first, Greg had assumed he was just angry with him for doubting Sherlock—rightfully so, he’d thought—but it had become clear rather quickly that he simply doesn’t speak much at all anymore. Greg had wanted to talk about Sherlock—had needed to talk to someone about it. He’d cared for the man, too. Misses him, even. Wanted to make sense of what happened. But John didn’t want to hear any of it, so he’d turned to Molly instead. He smiles inwardly at the thought of what’s begun to bloom between them. They’ve managed to find something pure and sweet in the bitterness of the last few months.

“John. Have a seat,” He gestures unnecessarily at the chairs facing his desk. John ignores him, glaring intently, expression expectant. Greg sighs. “Did I know _what?_ What’s happened?”

“He did it for us,” John croaks, removing his hands from his pockets to hover fisted at his sides once more. “He did it to save _us,_ Greg.”

Greg hasn’t got a clue what he’s on about, but can chance a pretty solid guess. All John has ever talked about is Sherlock—and vice versa, for that matter. The two of them were so clearly in love—it was excruciating to watch them dance around each other for over a bloody year. Never did get there, as far as he knows. A shame, really. A tragedy, even. They’d’ve both been much happier if they had. Greg gestures once more to the chairs, and this time he shuffles forward and collapses into one.

“Care to elaborate?” Greg asks. John exhales slowly.

“Bloody Mycroft,” He grumbles. “Showed up—four in the bloody morning at my sister’s flat—tells me that he didn’t _want_ to die. That he did it to spare _our_ lives," Greg doesn’t miss that he still refuses to say Sherlock’s name. “You and me and Mrs. Hudson. Said that if he hadn’t jumped, we’d all be quite dead.”

He sounds a bit mad, really. But this is the most John has ever said on the matter, and Greg is not about to waste an opportunity to try to gauge his current state of mind. If his disheveled appearance is anything to go by, things have only gone downhill since they’d last spoken.

“How does that work, then?” He tries, carefully keeping his tone light.

“I don’t know,” John mutters, shrinking back into the chair, seemingly losing every bit of the momentum he’d come bursting in with just a moment ago. “I guess there were three assassins—snipers—” He glances at Greg. Sighs. “You think I’ve gone mad,” Well, yes.

“No. No, of course not.”

“I know how it sounds,” His voice is almost pleading. Greg feels for him, he really does. His life with Sherlock _was_ mad. What he’s saying isn’t altogether unbelievable—though he’s not sure how _he_ fits into it. Or their bloody landlady, for that matter.

“Let’s assume that’s true, then—that Mycroft isn’t full of it. Why did he tell you now?” John shifts, looking more than a bit uncomfortable.

“I—had a bad night. He’s had his bloody underlings trailing me for months, and one of them evidently called my sister to come fetch me. I don’t know if Harry’s in on his little campaign to protect me or if Aoife just called her because they’re old mates. Anyway, I woke up on Harry’s couch to find Mycroft sitting there like a bloody statue, speaking in riddles and behaving like a complete tosser. Told me he wanted to _give me some perspective.”_ Sounds about right. Nothing about Mycroft Holmes has ever made much sense to Greg. While Sherlock was certainly a posh wanker, his brother takes it to another level entirely. “I don’t know why he’s bothering with any of it. We were never friends—why take an interest in my wellbeing now that—now that he’s dead?” He chokes on those final words. Almost said his name. God forbid.

“Mycroft loved his brother,” Greg begins, knowing that he’s walking into a minefield, but pushing on anyway. “And Sherlock loved you, John,” He visibly flinches, quickly looking away. Greg continues before he can flee. “I have no problem believing that he’d choose your life over his own. He never put much value on his own wellbeing—you know that full well. The mad bastard never slept or ate a decent meal unless you forced him to. I don’t know about Mrs. Hudson or myself, but if someone was threatening you, he’d have done whatever it took.” John swallows, remains silent for a small eternity.

“There was a man,” He finally says, gaze distant, mind apparently stuck in the past. “A workman. With Mrs. Hudson, when I—I’d left him in the lab, had gone to check on her—thought she’d—” He cuts himself off, looking a bit devastated. Greg has completely lost the thread of this conversation, but does his level best to listen. “What do you remember of that day?” John asks, meeting his eye at last. “Was there anyone—someone who didn’t belong?” His mind immediately goes to Huxley. He _belonged,_ technically, but he’d shown up just before things had begun to get weird, Greg never trusted him one bit—and he is almost certain he’s the one who first suggested that Sherlock was a sham. A low-ranking constable, he was there for all of it, hovering on the sidelines for the most part. He’d resigned just after Sherlock’s death, never to be heard from again.

“Maybe, yeah—” This theory of Mycroft’s is starting to seem almost likely—Greg had been beyond shocked to hear that Sherlock had taken his own life. The man had never given a toss about what the general public thought of him, and certainly wouldn’t have killed himself over a bad reputation. But if someone was threatening John…He fishes his mobile out of the sea of papers on his desk. “I’m calling him. All right?” John sighs, nods. Greg finds the entry in his contacts titled The Other Holmes and for the first time since Sherlock’s drugs phase, he hits _call._

“Gregory,” A simple, clipped greeting from the unamused voice on the other end of the line. “If he hadn’t run off so quickly I’d have further explained,” Straight to the heart of it, then. Greg puts his mobile on speakerphone and tosses it on the desk.

“Well, now’s your chance,” He says, glancing up at John, who’s glaring fixedly at the phone where it lies between them. “Explain away.”

“John?”

“I’m all ears, Mycroft,” They can hear him quietly clear his throat, pausing—probably for effect—before jumping straight in.

“Sherlock had known it was coming. He’d chosen the meeting point on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s—it was his idea to send you to check on Mrs. Hudson. You were never meant to be there to witness his fall. He didn’t want that,” Greg is a bit horrified hearing this spelled out so bluntly. Leave it to Mycroft Holmes to be completely devoid of emotion while describing his brother’s last day on Earth. He chances another glance at John—his face is like stone, but his eyes are soft, slightly damp. Greg feels a sympathetic pang. It must have been downright traumatic for him, watching it happen. He’s thought about it often in these past months, but watching John relive it now makes it all the more real. An absolutely cruel thing to do to your closest friend, even if it was supposedly done to spare his life. Despite Sherlock’s best efforts, John is barely hanging on. “I’m telling you this now, Dr. Watson, to make it clear that there was nothing you could have done to stop him. You’d done nothing wrong; it was an impossible situation. I made a promise to my brother to look after you when he’s gone, and I’m afraid I’ve failed at doing so. I've chosen to speak with you about this rather than to take more... _drastic_ measures—”

“My life is not your responsibility, Mycroft!” John shouts, rising to his feet. Greg sits frozen in place, watching helplessly as he begins to pace. “You may have kept your brother under constant scrutiny, but if I want to fuck off of the planet, you aren’t going to stop me. By the way, you couldn’t fucking stop him, either—” He suddenly halts, a ragged sob escaping from deep within his chest. He puts both hands on the back of a chair, hanging his head and trying to breathe—doing more gasping than anything. Greg can clearly see the tears falling in kind, now. Christ, this is awful. This entire bloody situation is absolutely hopeless. “His life was worth more than mine will ever be,” He says shakily, eyes closed tight. “I’m nothing without him—not anymore. Wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him. And now you’re telling me—what? That I need to continue on with this pathetic existence because of the sacrifice he’s made? He made the wrong choice,” His tone is crisp, now. Cold and sure. Greg tries not to take it too personally. After all, _he’d_ be dead too, evidently, had Sherlock chosen differently. But he understands the sentiment. He really does. It’s all rather fucked.

“It was his decision to make, John,” Mycroft’s tone is almost gentle. Greg knows that he has a heart, buried deep as it may be. He’d seen it in each of Sherlock’s lowest moments. Each time he’d found him half-dead in a trap house and called on Mycroft to drag him off for another attempt at rehab. It struck Greg as odd that that side of him never made an appearance after Sherlock’s life met its actual end—he’d seemed bored, almost, at the funeral. Deeply uncomfortable, but certainly not grief-stricken. It isn’t Greg’s place to judge how a man grieves, though, so he’d let it be. “I’ve promised him I’ll do whatever I can for you. Tell me what I can do,” Bit bold of him to assume he can do anything for someone in John’s position. He’s lost the one thing he had left to live for. 

Greg had felt much the same after his marriage ended—had spent many nights at the bottom of a bottle contemplating how simple it would be to just give it all up. In the end he’d decided it was an extremely selfish decision, suicide—in his situation, at least. He’d thought of how his ex would feel for the rest of her life. She isn’t a bad person. She wouldn’t have deserved that just because she couldn’t love him anymore. And he’s got friends—people who care, people who would be affected—would be plagued with regret, wondering what they could have done to stop it. Much like John has been. And now, just a few years later, Greg’s life has begun to truly light up again, all things considered. He thinks of Molly and silently thanks whatever deities might be up there looking out for him, whatever powers brought her into his life. In reality, it was Sherlock who brought them together. Introduced them in life and brought them closer in death. 

Looking at John now, he knows that he has to make the decision on his own. He’s been trudging along for months now, maybe waiting for things to get better, waiting for the constant flood of pain to begin to recede. Seems it’s only gotten worse. That’ll happen. The thing about death is it’s quite permanent, and last night must have been a bad one if it’s triggered all this.

“A new flat,” John says abruptly. “I want to get the fuck out of Baker Street, and I can’t afford to,” Mycroft is completely silent for a full ten seconds before he speaks.

“John—surely you recall that Sherlock has named you beneficiary—”

“I don’t want his money, Mycroft. I haven’t touched it. I won’t. Two months rent and a security deposit, to be paid back in full within the year. That’s what I’m asking for. I’ve applied at a clinic in Camberwell and have an interview Monday morning. Not sure how you’ve missed that—thought you’d’ve studied my bloody browser history. Sarah’s got a friend there who’s certain they’ll hire me on. I just need to—I’ve got to get out of there,” He’s a bit worked up. Greg doesn’t blame him for wanting to get out. That flat is all Sherlock—he’s everywhere, in every corner of the place. Inescapable.

“All right,” Mycroft says, his voice not betraying any questions he may have. “Let me know once you’ve found a suitable flat. Best of luck with your interview,” Greg is fairly certain he’s about to hang up and go pull whatever strings he must to ensure that John gets that job. “Goodbye for now.”

Silence fills the small office. John still stands, both hands clutching the back of the chair. He looks up to meet Greg's eyes, expression fierce.

“I’m not going to off myself, you know,” He says, bluntly. “I want to. Christ—” He shakes his head, looks down again. “But I won’t. They all think I’m about to go blow my bloody head off. Mycroft took my gun, first thing. Thinks I haven’t noticed, that I haven’t checked whether it’s still there now that I’ve got no one to protect,” The tears are back, but he gives Greg a wry smile. “I’ve got this feeling, Greg—can’t explain it. Just—feels like something’s coming that I need to be around for,” He stands up straight, tucks his hands back in his pockets. “Guess we’ll see,” He says, as he shoulders his way out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen.
> 
> Oh, sorry. Thought you'd asked how many times I used the word 'bloody' in this chapter.
> 
> Also, hey, THANKS FOR READING. I know this is one is sort of bleak and clearly nobody wants to read weird angst right now if the hit count is to be trusted, lolz. I promise they'll be reunited eventually, just wanted to try something new.
> 
> Please let me know if you're liking it. Not sure if I'll keep going with this one or pause it to jump back into one of my (several) other stories that are waiting to be finished.  
> Any and all feedback is deeply appreciated. xo


	4. Martha

🅜🅐🅡🅣🅗🅐

Perhaps a nice roast for dinner. Maybe that would get him to come down for a bit of a chat. A roast to go with these crusty blaas—his favourite, though she pretends every time that she didn’t know. She’d like to check in, to cautiously probe. She had learned rather quickly not to try to discuss Sherlock outright—Martha had never seen a man shutter up as quickly as John did after her one and only attempt at asking how he was coping with the loss. And what a loss it was. The man has been an absolute wreck. The two of them were so thoroughly intertwined, she can hardly blame him. _Codependent,_ is the term her pretentious, psychotherapist sister had used when she spoke of them. Bunch of rubbish. They loved each other. Relied on one another. And now poor John is just floundering a bit.

She didn’t hear him come home last night—perhaps he’s putting himself out there again, trying to move on. Somehow, she doubts it. It’s too soon for that, though she will support his efforts to move forward in any way she can. When she’d heard _how_ it happened—on the news, no less (always the last to know)—she’d nearly fainted right then and there. How could Sherlock _do_ that? How could he put John through it? He’d shown no signs whatsoever of wanting to end his life. Martha isn’t fool enough to assume there are _always_ signs—sometimes these things simmer beneath the surface until a person just can’t take it anymore. But she’d known Sherlock. She _had._ She should have seen, should have noticed _something._ But she hadn’t. She was blindsided by it, just as the rest of them were.

She hears the front door open, then shut. Footsteps in the hall. Evidently John _had_ stayed out all night. She can’t help but feel a pang of—something. Regret, perhaps. Sadness. Mourning the end of the lovely bond that had surged between those two misfit men. John has been desperately holding onto it, even without Sherlock around to carry his part. It’s been weighing him down, holding him back. It’s best to let it go as soon as he’s able, she supposes. To get on with his life, painful as it may be to do so. She can hear him dithering in the hall and wanders from the kitchen toward the entryway, wiping her flour-dusted hands on a tea towel.

When she cracks open the door, she finds him standing right there, as though considering whether to knock or disappear upstairs as he usually does. When their eyes meet, he seems to internally crumble, so she ushers him inside without question, guiding him straight to the kitchen table and pushing him none-too-gently down into a chair.

“Blaas in the oven, dear. They’ll be done in a tick,” She infuses as much cheer into her voice as she can muster, though the look on his face does not make that an easy feat. She bustles around, digging jam out of the fridge and snatching the butter dish from the worktop to place on the table in front of him. She can feel a certain tension in the air. He has something to say, and she’s not sure she wants to hear it. Busying herself with the dishes, she keeps her back to him, checking the rolls repeatedly, though she knows full well that they need another ten minutes.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Oh, he sounds weary. Tattered and worn. She turns to him, holding her breath. “Can we talk?” This is what she’d wanted. She’s been plotting for this with crusty rolls and roasts, so why does it feel like she’s walking into her own execution?

“Of course,” She takes a seat at the table beside him, placing a hand over his fidgeting fingers and waiting for him to begin.

“I’m—leaving,” Her heart sinks. Somewhere deep down, she’d known this was coming. “Leaving Baker Street, but not London. A new flat, that’s all. Something different—I—it’s for the best,” His eyes are pleading, begging her to understand. She does. Of course she does. She nods.

“When?”

“Well, I’m—I’ll pay rent through the month, of course, but—as soon as I can find something else. Within the week, I hope,” He needs to get out, she can see that now. It’s been torture for him, living amongst the memories. She squeezes his fingers tightly, trying to convey that she understands, that she doesn’t hold it against him one bit. “I’ll visit,” He says quietly. She won’t blame him if he doesn’t. Sherlock was what held them together—the common link between them. Now that he’s gone, they can’t look at one another without thinking of him. The difference between the two of them is that Martha _wants_ to remember. She wants to hold onto the memory of that enigmatic man who brought so much to their rather humdrum lives. But she understands why John can’t, just now.

“Whatever you need,” She says, standing and pulling him to his feet as well. She hadn’t planned to hug him, but now here they are, her arms wrapped tightly around his too-thin frame. He’s not been taking care of himself—can hardly tell with those jumpers and baggy jackets he’s always wearing. She’ll be sending the rolls upstairs with him, then. Will bring the roast up later, pester him to eat a bit. He returns the embrace, but keeps it brief, stepping back quickly and not quite meeting her eye. “You know, that brother of his has demanded I keep 221B available indefinitely,” She adds, not thinking much of it. A rather large sum of money had appeared in her bank account, just after Sherlock’s death, to ensure that she does. She certainly doesn’t need the money—would have held the flat for John either way—but Martha has learned not to question the actions of the elder Holmes, and she doesn’t especially want to rent to anyone else anyway. It would be dreadful to have strangers living upstairs and traipsing through her halls. “So if you ever decide to return—”

“What?” His voice cuts through her unfinished thought, eyes a bit wide and wondering.

“The flat—Mycroft has asked me not to rent to anyone but you for the foreseeable future.”

“That’s why you haven’t been cashing my checks. I thought—why would he do that?” A crease has appeared between his brows. He drops back down into the chair, gaze drifting to the side, seemingly lost in thought.

“Well I’d assumed to keep it available for you, dear, should you choose to go away for a bit. It is your home, after all. He’s also keeping Sherlock’s things up there, isn’t he? At least until he gets around to moving them. The man has more money than he knows what to do with. Paid two years out—honestly, so unnecessary. At some point you have to think he’s just being a bit of a show-off…” John isn’t listening. Martha leaves him be, poking her head in the oven to check on the blaas. Perfect. Golden brown with a lovely crust. She plops the pan down on the stovetop to cool and continues working her way through the dishes.

•

“I should go,” John says at last. He’s been sitting there silently for a solid twenty minutes. The dishes are long finished and nearly dry on the rack and Martha has moved on to wrapping the rolls in linen and packing them into a tin. She hands him the container, looks him up and down.

“You’re to eat these, young man. I don’t appreciate how thin you’ve gotten—there’s no reason for it when you’ve got me just downstairs. I’ll be up later with a roast and we’ll have a proper dinner—send you off in style,” Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument and John nods once, giving her a fond, if a bit long-suffering smile. It’s the first time in months she’s seen any sort of expression beyond a deep, unending pain or momentary confusion on his weary features. She smiles back, pecking him on the cheek and following him to the door. 

He leaves without another word, shuffling slowly up the stairs, and Martha wonders—with a sharp stab of sorrow—if after this week, she’ll ever see him again at all.


	5. John

🅙🅞🅗🅝

“Fuck,” John mutters, tossing the manila folder aside and reaching for a tissue. He pauses, staring at the fresh papercut and the tiny drop of blood beading up on the pad of his middle finger. He’s instantly accosted by a heady rush of images, flickering through his mind: an unrelenting slide projector of traitorous memories. Sherlock, leaning against a filthy skip behind some petrol station, glaring impatiently—John having finally caught up with him, cornering him into submission. A clean cut, straight across the palm of his hand where he’d grabbed for the knife. Fairly shallow, thank god, but enough blood that it needs to be fucking dealt with—not ignored in order to chase down a bloody _embezzler—_

John blinks, inhaling deeply as he glances around his small office. He’s always completely floored by these moments, these flashbacks that hit him without warning and the almost-real sense memories that accompany the images. Sherlock’s skin, one elegant hand resting in John’s—alive and real and warm despite the bitter weather—watching him closely as he wraps the wound carefully with his own scarf. The subtle puff of breath on John’s forehead—the fact that they’re standing rather closer than necessary—each of them always stealing any chance to do so without having to confront the reason why. Neither of them ever quite acknowledging it beyond the frequent burning, blinding glances and occasional lingering touch. That day in the alley he had wrapped his fingers firmly around Sherlock’s wrist, staring up at him for what felt like ages, willing him to understand how much John needs him. Needs him to take his life seriously, to be less bloody reckless, to fucking stick around.

He shakes his head, a futile attempt at shaking off the unwanted memory. Each time that this happens—less frequently, now, but still much more often than he’d like—he continuously slips back into it until he finds himself quietly sobbing into his palms. His current bleak reality is constantly melding with the past that he so desperately longs to return to.

A knock on the door.

“Yes,” John says, clearing his throat and forcing his mind back to the present. The door opens a bit and the new nurse—name instantly forgotten—pokes her head in.

“Hello,” She says, remaining in the hallway and hovering obnoxiously, half in and half out. “Thought perhaps you’d like to go for a pint,” Her voice grates on his nerves. It’s irrational, he knows. Been a long day, is all. A long week. A long six months. He really doesn’t need to take his own misery out on this poor woman. “Nearly half eight,” She glances unnecessarily at her watch. “Join me?”

“Ah, no,” John says quickly. Bit rude. Should be kinder to his workmates. Has only been at this clinic for a few months, should be trying a bit harder to make friends. He scrambles to snatch up the paperwork he’d been entering into the system, forgetting his sliced finger and smearing the folder with a thick smudge of blood. “Not quite finished up here. Sorry,” He adds, belatedly.

“No worries,” She beams. “Have a nice evening, then,” She disappears without another word. There was a time when he’d have accepted the invitation—would have jumped at the opportunity to spend the evening focussing on someone, _anyone_ but his bastard of a flatmate. He’d spent their first year together doing exactly that. John had never dated so many women in such a short span of time in his life—finding the whole game rather tedious, honestly, despite his ridiculous reputation in the army—but he’d been trying to prove something to himself. It was all useless, in the end. An absolute waste of time.

John sighs, scratching halfheartedly at the smudge of blood on the folder. Already dry. Hardly matters. Everything is digital these days anyway. Once the file is in the system the hard copy will be shoved in a drawer somewhere, probably never to be seen again by human eyes. He sits staring at the white tile floor for an embarrassingly long time, head hung, the fingers of his left hand tightening into a fist and then straightening back out again and again—something he’s developed a habit of doing in lieu of punching a hole through a wall every time he’s forced to think of Sherlock in the presence of others. He fights with himself internally for what feels like an age before putting his work computer to sleep and digging his battered laptop out of the brown messenger bag he carries with him everywhere. _Fuck,_ he thinks resignedly, as he opens the familiar document, determinedly not reading a word of it as he scrolls to the bottom and sets fingers to keys, as he so often does. As he so often _needs_ to do.

He’d never meant for this exercise to turn into a bloody one-sided conversation. Ella had suggested that he write—the same bland suggestion she’d made when he’d returned from war, broken and inconsolable and ready to get the fuck out of this life. She’d told him to write out his thoughts, since he clearly couldn’t speak them. Now she tells him to write his regrets.

Hadn’t taken much convincing, really, this time around. At some point in the two years since he’d started the blog, writing has become second nature for him. It’s something he can _do._ Something he was capable of when he couldn’t manage much else. He hasn’t touched the blog. That was an ode to Sherlock, a record of their time together. Whatever this is, it isn’t something to be broadcast to the world. Instead, he’d opened a Word document, left it untitled, hidden it three folders deep on his desktop—despite the fact that there’s no one around to find it—and visited it often throughout this isolated hell he's been living. 

It had begun as a list. A list of regrets. Not the most honest list, at first, but he’d gotten there eventually. Admitted it to himself and to this unassuming document. The lists gradually evolved into letters. Letters to Sherlock. Rambling streams of consciousness—all the things he’d never said, could never say, still would never say even if the man’s bloody ghost appeared in front of him right now. He wouldn’t want to hear it, anyway. Whatever he’d felt for John, it wasn’t this obsessive, desperate longing that John has had to accept in himself.

•

His new flat is small, modern, minimal. Everything that 221B could never be. White walls and large windows. Fake fireplace to go with the faux wooden floors. It isn’t to his taste, really—he’d loved the cozy chaos of Baker Street from the moment he’d walked through the door—but it’s what he needs, now. Something different. One thing he can control.

His bed is comfortable. Grey cotton sheets, a simple, dark green duvet. As he crawls into it he prepares himself for the inevitable. His defenses crumble here—not that they’re particularly solid at any point in the day—but in the dark, when he’s quite alone with absolutely no reason to hide, they fall.

It’s become routine, at this point, this indulgent display of emotion. The moment he pulls the sheets over his body and sinks into the overly plush mattress, the grief washes over him like the tide, pulling him down deep. He closes his eyes against the everpresent onslaught of tears, pulls a pillow to his chest, and calls on every shred of memory that he’s managed to hold onto. He wishes, as he often does in these moments, that he had a mind palace to retreat to. 

Instead, he thinks of Sherlock’s hands. He thinks of how they felt on his body. Pressing warmly on the small of his back as he was guided out the door. Resting against his shoulder as he hovered behind John, fondly criticizing whatever he’d been typing up for the blog. One palm on each cheek as he spun John around, urging him to remember some crucial detail for a case. 

He thinks of his own hands, too—of every part of his dearest friend that he’d managed to touch in their time together, of how he’d been surprised each time by his warmth, of how real and right it had felt to show affection in this way. He had never felt compelled to do so with any of his other mates—isn’t a particularly demonstrative person. But almost from the start, the two of them had had a rather tactile way of showing their devotion, platonic as it may have been.

He imagines, now, a long, lean body in front of him. Can almost feel the line of a bony spine against his chest, the warmth that would radiate from his skin, the slow beat of a living heart. John thinks of how it would feel to wrap his arms around that slim torso, to run a palm over his pale expanse of stomach, sliding up to rest along a prominent ribcage. He never did manage to embrace the man—perhaps his greatest regret. He’s certain, now, that if he had, he wouldn’t have needed to find the words. Sherlock would have felt it.

None of his waking fantasies are overtly sexual. He knows that Sherlock wouldn’t want that—wouldn’t appreciate John thinking of him in that way. And anyway, that isn’t the point. It was never about sex. While his dreams may disagree, the conscious version of John dwells only on the comfort they could have found in each other. They could have had this. He knows they could’ve. Sherlock had wanted this, too.

Sighing, John allows himself to get lost in the illusion of what could have been. He doesn’t know what he’s holding out for, really. All he really knows anymore is that somewhere deep within him—in that untapped cluster of senses that they’d all referred to as _instinct_ in the army—is a voice that screams for him to hang on. To stay put, bide his time. He suspects it's half madness, half suppressed memory. Maybe he knows something, innately understands something that’s been said or done and just can’t recall—part of the plot that is yet to unfold. John has always been a bit slow on the uptake—perhaps he still has a role to play, in whatever wreckage remains of Moriarty’s great game. Or perhaps it’s wishful thinking. Delusion. An unwillingness to let go of the person he was when he was with Sherlock Holmes.

Either way, it’s the only thing he’s got left to live for, and he isn’t ready to let go of it just yet.


	6. Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SURE you're all aware, but in case you're not: John (Martin) looks [so beautiful](https://i.imgur.com/dW0hUti.jpg) with a beard, so he's keeping it for the duration of this story.
> 
> Also, hi. I last updated this angsty little bugger in September. Oops! It's also my least popular WIP so naturally it's the one I was able to get back to first. Been feeling VERY ANGSTY so here's a full chapter of Molly being weird.

🅜🅞🅛🅛🅨

> _Come over for xmas!!_
> 
> _Come on John, we haven’t seen you in ages_
> 
> _Skip the party if you like_
> 
> _Greg’s making dinner on sunday and it’ll be just us_
> 
> _Please come_

> _Hey, Molly. Nice to hear from you._
> 
> _Sure, alright. Thanks._
> 
> _What can I bring?_

  
  


So formal. Oh, this is a terrible idea. Molly may have succeeded for over a year now at keeping Sherlock’s massive, deadly secrets—even from her bloody _detective_ boyfriend—but she isn’t convinced that it will be quite so easy with John Watson. He could give her one pleading look with those big, sad eyes and she could spill it all in the name of Christmas. She could hand him the package she’s kept hidden away, let it open a Pandora’s bloody Box of questions that she doesn’t have an easy answer for.

But they really would like to see him.

She and Greg discuss John often, lately. They try to think up ways to convince him to be a part of their lives again—always coming up empty and changing the subject when the mood grows too grim. 

They’d reached out last month on the anniversary of Sherlock’s fall and were ignored entirely, a week later receiving a vague apology and a claim that he’s been busy with work. They’d sent him an invitation to the housewarmingslashholiday party that they’re throwing on Christmas Day and didn’t hear back at all. 

Greg has seen the man only twice in the last year: Once when he’d apparently come storming into his office at the Yard, all thunder and lightning and frantic, manic rage—revealing that Mycroft had taken it upon himself to give up half the plot and send John into a tailspin. And once to give him an old DVD he’d found of Sherlock stumbling his way through a birthday greeting. 

Molly hasn’t seen him at all.

  
  


> _Just bring yourself, John_
> 
> _7:00 at the new flat_
> 
> _Can’t wait to see you!!!_

  
  


•  
  
  


She knows that she’s staring. Knows full well that this moment is dragging on for far too bloody long and she should _say something._ Should invite him in. _Happy Christmas, John! How lovely to see you!_ But instead she just watches him fidgeting on the threshold, eyes surely wide and words snagged painfully in her throat.

“Molly,” He nods, trying for a smile. She swallows. He’s nearly unrecognizable. She’d heard he’d grown a beard and has clearly kept it for all these months. It’s grown in—thick and full and fairly long, actually, but neatly trimmed. It suits him, really. He looks handsome, almost dashing, at first glance. But upon closer inspection, it seems the beard is only there to mask terribly sunken, weary features—the circles etched under his eyes paint a picture of many sleepless nights. His face is more sallow and much thinner than she’s ever seen it, and despite the fact that his entire demeanor radiates a deep-seated ennui, something about him looks more youthful, boyish. Perhaps he simply looks lost. 

He stands before her in a too-big, burgundy fairisle jumper and the same baggy jacket he’s always worn. Slim-cut trousers and brown leather shoes. He’s made an effort to look put-together. She wonders who he’s trying to fool.

“John!” Greg shuffles up beside Molly, clapping John warmly on the shoulder and ushering him through the door. She loves this about him. Loves his easy warmth in the face of tragedy. It’s what drew them together in the weeks following Sherlock’s sudden absence. It’s what kept her sane under the crushing weight of the devastating secret that she wasn’t in any way prepared to keep. “Come on in, mate. Pasta’s nearly finished and we’ve got plenty of lager in the fridge. Hang your coat just there,” He waves a hand toward the wall beside the front door, aiming a raised eyebrow at Molly, who smiles apologetically. She’s already acting strange. _Bollocks._

John gives Greg his own strained smile, shrugging off his jacket and slipping it onto a hook. Molly watches Greg’s grey mop of hair retreat into the kitchen, hears him flinging open the refrigerator to fetch John a beer. John accepts it with a nod of thanks, drinking deeply and glancing around their new flat.

“It’s lovely,” He says, voice a bit gruff. He quietly clears his throat as his gaze sweeps over the shiny hardwood floors and warm white walls covered in Molly’s eclectic art collection. The light blue velvet sofa and coordinating armchairs bracket the painted brick fireplace, crackling warmly along the far wall. His eyes finally land on the towering bay window framed with twinkling white fairy lights, the illuminated city visible through the parted curtains and darkened glass. “A—home. You, the two of you—” He coughs, smiling a self-deprecating smile at his fumbled words. He tries again. “It’s nice to see you both. Nice to see you happy.”

Before she has a chance to think it through, Molly has taken the few steps toward him, wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed. All of the guilt she’s been able to suppress for all this time is now bubbling unbidden to the surface when confronted with this miserable man. She could tell him. She could just _tell him._

John’s free hand comes up slowly, unenthusiastically patting her on the back before dropping back down to his side. She doesn’t let go quite yet, pressing her cheek against his soft knit jumper and trying to form a single safe sentence. She wants to erase the lines from his face, lift the circles from his eyes. She wants to tell him that _he’s alive. Sherlock is alive_ and out there and doing what he must so that he can return—return to John. _It’s not real, John; you’ll see him again._

But no, she couldn’t. She can’t.

“I’ve missed you, John,” She lets go, squeezing his arm once before backing out of his space. “So’s Greg. We’re so glad you’re here,” He stares at his shoes. “Come on,” Molly says, nodding toward the sofa. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  
  


•

  
  


They can hardly drag a word out of him. He tells Molly a vague bit about his work at the clinic while Greg finishes dinner. Her overall impression is that he finds it as tedious as he’d found the last place, but his coworkers are tolerable. When she’d grasped onto that tiny spark of positivity and asked if he’d made any good friends there, he’d simply looked away and said _no._

While they sit around the kitchen table, eating their pasta and sipping their drinks, Greg yammers on about the case he’s been working on for the last week, attempting to catch John’s interest with a gruesome murder, to ignite that old flame. She watches quietly as Greg asks his medical opinion on various wounds found on the body and decomposition rates, then tries to tempt him into reminiscing about cases from their past. It simply doesn’t work. John nods and smiles, but mostly he stares down at the table and pushes penne around his plate.

It’s becoming very clear, now, here in this excruciating void of a conversation, that their entire relationship with John was centered around Sherlock Holmes. If he isn’t here—if they can’t even _speak_ of the man—then there’s bloody nothing to be said. So—

“John,” Molly cuts Greg off mid-sentence as he rambles on about some case or other. John isn’t listening anyway. He hardly seems present at all—a wisp in the wind. At the sound of his name, however, he meets her eye. “Tell me how you’ve been. Tell me how you’ve really been,” He looks momentarily surprised, then briefly terrified—caught out. She watches, then, as his walls fly up, face going eerily blank. 

The expression reminds her of Sherlock. Of course it does. Reminds her of that day, of his cool façade as he’d strode into the morgue, hair matted red and abnormally pale face dripping with someone else’s blood. She’d been furious, absolutely irate with him. He had charmed her into assisting by claiming that she’d mattered, that she’d _counted._ But she had seen how deeply somber he’d become—she had seen that his entire world had narrowed down to John. _Do you not know what this means for the ones you’re leaving behind? Do you even care?_ She hadn’t been bold enough to give voice to these thoughts. He’d brushed her off anyway, heading straight into her office and slamming the door behind him.

She’d worked up the nerve to burst in on him ten minutes later, only to find him hugging his knees and sobbing where he sat trembling like a leaf on the cold, hard floor. She’d crouched down carefully, let her fingers curl lightly around his heaving shoulders. _You’ll see him again,_ was all that she could think to say.

By the time big brother had come to usher him away, his walls were firmly in place once more.

Molly breaks free of the unpleasant memory to find John staring silently down at the table, seemingly still deciding on how to respond.

“I should go,” He mutters at last, standing abruptly, chair screeching across the floor as he shoves it back and out of his path. “Thanks for—” He waves a hand toward the table, immediately turning toward the door to fetch his jacket, shrugging it quickly onto his shoulders.

“No! John—” Molly is up and in front of him in an instant, reaching halfheartedly for his wrist to stop him. She quickly thinks better of it and lets her hand drop, positioning herself in front of the door instead and swallowing nervously at the look he shoots her way. “Just—wait. Please,” She breathes. She glances up to see Greg standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at her as though he hardly recognizes her at all.

“Molls,” He says carefully. “Let him—”

“There’s a package under the sink,” She cuts him off, having made up her mind about it. “Fetch it, please,” She’s really not sure if this is wise. She is certain that it isn’t her place, that it isn’t her gift to give. But now that she’s seen what’s become of John Watson, it feels necessary—if a bit bloody reckless.

“What’s this, then?” Greg asks, sidling out of the kitchen clutching the box she had painstakingly wrapped in thick brown paper and tied with red twine.

“A gift, obviously,” She nods at John and Greg raises his brows but hands it to the man, who looks more exhausted with each second he remains trapped in their entryway. “You don’t need to—just open it at home, John. And I—I’m sorry if I—well, Happy Christmas, anyway,” She leans in to kiss his cheek—tries not to react when he flinches slightly, then steps away from the door.

John clears his throat, glances up from where he’s been staring at the fairly large and weighty but altogether unassuming brown box and meets her eye.

“Thank you,” He rasps. “I’ve got to—ah, Merry Christmas,” He adds with a nod, then ducks through the door into the solitude of night.


	7. Greg

🅖🅡🅔🅖

“What the hell was that, Molls?” Greg closes the door behind their fleeing dinner guest and gazes incredulously at the gentle and thoughtful and beautiful and  _ mad _ and bloody  _ confusing _ woman he’s fallen hopelessly in love with over the last year. She looks up at him a bit guiltily, then slumps against the wall.

“Shit,” She breathes. “Shit.”

“Thought we’d decided to go easy on him.”

“Yeah,” She exhales slowly. “Yeah, I just—” Molly shrugs, pushing herself off the wall and darting into the kitchen, clumsily clearing their plates from the table.

“You just decided to attempt an interrogation?” He follows her, leaning against the door frame and watching her dash about. “And what was in the bloody package anyway? You’ve not mentioned a gift,” She glances over her shoulder where she now stands at the sink, then returns her gaze to the stack of dishes in front of her.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. Something I’ve been holding onto that I thought he might like to have.”

Bit cryptic.

Greg waits. She’s been acting bloody strange all night—a bit erratic—clearly has something formidable on her mind. Molly doesn’t do so great with bottling emotions, and he knows by now that she’ll spill if he just gives her some time.

He helps clear the rest of the table, binning their beer bottles and then settling beside her to dry the dishes she’s placed on the rack. Once they’re done, she turns to him and sighs.

“I shouldn’t have given it to John,” She whispers. Her expression is earnest, concerned. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

Greg is no idiot. He’s a bloody detective. A good one, too.

Whatever was in that box was something that belonged to Sherlock—something that Molly had kept, had wrapped up and tucked away and given to John in a moment of desperate hope and a bit of pity. Whatever it is, she now fears it may send the man even further over the edge. Or into the abyss. Or out to sea. It’s unclear where John’s head is, these days.

“It’ll be fine,” He steps forward, wraps an arm around her waist, presses his lips to her hairline. She exhales shakily, breath warm against his neck. “John will be fine. He may have forgotten how to bloody socialize, but he seems a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him.” 

A few months back, he’d found some footage from a birthday video they’d filmed for John that first year he’d come into Sherlock’s life—a few minutes of Sherlock being an absolute dick on film. Greg had brought it to John’s flat along with a few other odds and ends, mostly as an excuse to see for himself that John was still alive and going through the motions. 

John had smiled flatly, demeanor cold as ice, breath smelling of whiskey—and claimed he wouldn’t be watching it,  _ but thanks all the same. _

“I’m worried we haven’t done enough for him, Greg. He hasn’t got anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Greg says, pulling her into a proper embrace. “But you can’t do much for a man who’s chosen to cling to something that’s no longer there, Molls.”

“No,” She sighs, her cheek damp against his own. “I suppose not.”

  
  


•

> _ Can we meet for a pint? _

> _ Sure mate _
> 
> _ I’m off at 7 _
> 
> _ Usual spot? _

> _ Yeah see you then _

  
  


Greg glances up at the tattered awning as he shuffles through the heavy blue door and into the eclectic (if a bit grimy) pub. It’s been bloody ages since he’s been in this place. Months and months. He’d met John here a handful of times in the first weeks after Sherlock’s death—John claimed to have chosen it because it’s quiet and there’s absolutely no chance of running into any imbeciles from the Yard here. Greg had gotten the impression that John had a history with the place, but he hadn’t pried.

He takes a moment to stare at the two-headed goat that juts out of the far wall, lets his eyes roam over the odd mish-mash of furniture that sits in clusters around a small fireplace, lingering for a moment on the group of twenty-somethings sitting huddled on floral print armchairs, chatting animatedly and sipping their lagers. He’s always thought this place was quite strange—someone’s bizarre collection of objects put on display with a bar shoved in the corner just to give it all some sort of purpose. 

But he doesn’t mind it, really. There’s always something to look at.

He heads for said bar, off to the left. Not a soul seated on the row of worn leather stools. No sign of John. He takes a seat, glancing at his watch. 7:13. Greg is late. John is later.

“What’re you having?” The barkeep is a stunning brunette. He remembers her from before—recalls her obvious soft spot for John. She’d been quiet and kind, and didn't quite hide the fact that she was keeping an eye on him. A character from John’s past, he’d been certain.

“Ah—let’s try the stout,” He smiles his warmest smile, fishing his mobile from his pocket to see if John has texted. He hasn’t.

The stout is good. The minutes tick by.

“Greg,” John clambers through the door at half seven, looking windswept and a bit out of breath. “Sorry—sorry, I forget what the bloody tube is like from the clinic at this time of night. Took bloody  _ ages,” _ He situates himself on a stool beside Greg, shuffling around a bit and removing his familiar black jacket, tossing it over the stool on his left. “Anyway,” He continues, shooting Greg an apologetic smile. “Hello.”

“No worries, mate,” Greg takes in the sight of him now that he’s settled, noting that he looks a bit less of a sunken wreck than he had on Christmas. It’s only been two weeks, but there’s a notable improvement. “All right?” He asks carefully, more than a bit curious why he’d asked Greg here in the first place.

“Yeah, fine,” He nods, eyes flicking toward the barkeep who’s just approached, eyeing John with wide eyes and a raised brow. “Aoife,” He smiles at her hesitantly.

“John, hi,” She narrows her eyes slightly. “Been awhile.”

“Yeah. Yeah I—moved. Camberwell. And ah, cut back. On the lager, that is. And the rest of it.”

“Good,” She looks like she means it. Seems relieved, even. “That’s—glad to hear it, John. You look all right, you know,” She grins now, pouring him a pint and then setting a glass of water down beside it. “I think I’ve accepted the beard,” She eyes his face, nods to herself. “Suits you,” Then she disappears down the bar and into the back room.

Greg can’t help the stupid smile on his face when John’s cheeks flush red and he stares determinitely down into his drink.

“Well then,” Greg says cheerfully, taking a long pull on his own beverage.  _ “Suits you.” _

“Shut it.”

“You've got yourself an admirer.”

“Ah, no,” John says, meeting Greg’s eyes as a small smile tugs at his lips. “I think my sister is more her type. Certain of it, actually,” Ah. Well. “We just go back, is all. She’s known me for a long while. Since before—this,” He flicks his hand upward—indicating, Greg assumes, the sorry turn that his life has taken. “Before this, even,” He gestures toward his shoulder, which Greg now knows was the only reason John had returned to London at all. “Anyway,” John sighs. “I wanted to—apologize—for Christmas.”

“John—”

“No, just—I shouldn’t have agreed to come. I was in no state to be any sort of proper guest. I’d—” He pauses, takes another drink. “I’d been to Baker Street. The day before. To see Mrs. Hudson,”  _ Oh, _ Greg thinks, watching as John processes the rest of this monologue he seems to have come ready to perform. “I shouldn’t have gone there—I’ve been—doing better. Getting better at distracting myself. Not thinking about it—him,” He swallows, glances at Greg, then back down into his beer. “Sherlock. But I’d gone up to the flat—just to see. That was a mistake. So—I’m sorry.”

“No need for that, John. We were happy to see you. Always are. How’s Mrs. H, then?”

“She’s all right. A bit bored, I think. Wanted to talk about him. About Sherlock. So we did. It was—fine,” Greg hasn’t heard John say Sherlock’s name aloud since before his death. Perhaps he has made some progress after all. He takes a moment to consider his next words.

“And being there—it was—”

“It’s exactly the same, Greg. Like some sort of—shrine or— _ tomb,” _ He sighs, shaking his head slightly. “She told me before I left that Mycroft had paid rent on the place two years out. I’d thought it was odd at the time, but assumed he’d just been buying himself time. He isn’t completely heartless—I’d thought—maybe he isn’t ready to deal with it all. With Sherlock’s stuff. But it’s exactly as I’d left it a bloody year ago.”

“Isn’t that for your benefit? So you can go back, when—”

“I’m not going back. He  _ knows _ I’m not going back. How could I? It’s—” He huffs out a loud breath, staring at Greg for a moment. “I couldn’t.”

“Right,” Greg downs the last of his stout, smiling at Aoife as she appears out of nowhere to pour him another. “I suppose not, yeah.”

They sit in silence, John still nursing his first pint, perhaps actually taking the whole not-succumbing-to-alcoholism thing seriously. After a solid five minutes of contemplative silence, John speaks again.

“Did you know?” He asks, voice light, simply curious. Greg looks at him. “The—gift she gave me at Christmas—Molly—did you know she had it all this time?”

He’d forgotten about that. Molly hadn’t wanted to tell him, so he’d let it go.

“I don’t even know what was in that box, to be honest,” John’s eyes widen slightly at that. Surprised, then.

“Thought he’d been buried in it,” He mumbles, glaring down at the bartop. “Not that we’d bloody know—closed casket and all. No one wants to look at the body of a man who’s just lept from a bloody rooftop. Thought it’d gone with him to the grave.”

Ah.

“The coat,” Greg thinks back, pondering whether he had a single clue that Molly had somehow ended up with it. They’ve only lived together for a month, and they’d spent most of their time at his flat before they’d gotten their own place. He hadn’t known, no. She must’ve taken it from the morgue that day and secreted it away somewhere.

“Funny how a bloody coat could be such a part of a man’s identity. It was, though. I knew exactly what it was the second I opened the box. Was furious, at first.”

“And now?” John looks up, then away again. Always looking away.

“Grateful, I suppose. Not sure why she—gave it to me, or—had it in the first place. But,” He shrugs. Doesn’t say another word about it.

  
  


•

  
  


When Greg drives home that night, he doesn’t try to prevent his mind (just this once) from collecting the strands of doubt, the tiny fragments of  _ how _ and of  _ why _ that have been rattling around in there since Sherlock’s implausible fall. He doesn’t force himself to let go of every odd action, every dodged question and vague response that Molly has given him in the year that followed. He doesn’t brush off Mycroft Holmes’ nearly nonsensical explanations and assurances—the claims that Sherlock did this for them, for him. For John.

Maybe it’s true. Maybe. But he’s missing something—some crucial link, some pivotal component.

Of that, he is sure.


End file.
